Hoping he couldn’t smell the desperation radiating off me, I leaned against the imposing desk and kept my voice low.
“I understand you’re just doing your job, Preston. But so am I, and I already told Hughes out there that my client hasn’t cancelled, so I need to show up to get paid.” Swallowing my meager pride, I lowered my voice further. “I’m the only provider for my family, and our financial situation isn’t what you’d callideal. I can’t afford to lose a booking.”
He didn’t need to know that my family only consisted of me and my cat—a partially blind furball who was more trouble than he was worth.
“Unfortunately, sob stories won’t change the rules.” Preston copied my stage whisper, before straightening. “Now, are you willing to leave the premises on your own, or would you like security to assist you?”
He glanced to his left, and I followed his gaze to a looming muscular man watching us from the corner. A shiny badge on his chest reflected light from the chandelier.
I gulped. “Could—Could you please just let me go up to the penthouse and talk to Mr. Westbrook myself? Please, Preston. He’ll call down and tell you he’s expecting me.”
“Oh, will he?” Preston’s smile tightened. “It was a nice attempt, but I’m afraid you’re not the first admirer to try this tactic for a chance to meet Mr. Westbrook.”
… Admirer?
I stared for a beat, waiting for my brain to catch up. “I’m not a stalker, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“That’s what they all say before security escorts them out.” He looked off to the side. “Frank?”
“Wait!” Frank was the last thing I needed. I couldn’t lose this gig. I’d already spent a good chunk of the day getting to this private luxury building and fighting my way in, and Whiskey needed this money. Taking a deep breath, I gave it one more shot. “Please call Mr. Westbrook. If he doesn’t confirm we have an appointment today, then I’ll leave. I promise.”
Preston’s flat stare told me he didn’t believe me for a second, but when he sighed, I knew I’d worn him down.
“One moment, please,” he murmured. He put a sleek black phone to his ear, and my hope soared when he cleared his throat just moments later. “Mac, I’ve got a woman down in the lobby claiming she has an appointment with Mr. Westbrook.”
I leaned closer, but I couldn’t make out any of the muffled response.
“Tell him the booking is nonrefundable!” I whisper-shouted.
That earned an unamused side-eye.
“He heard you,” Preston said dryly, before focusing on me. “Which company are you with?”
I glanced around. It didn’t look like anyone else was close enough to eavesdrop, but I still needed to play it safe. “Our initials are S.C.S.”
Some discretion could still be salvaged.
Preston only cocked an eyebrow.
“She says she’s with S.C.S,” he relayed. Whatever Mac said back made the receptionist’s eyes narrow at me. “Steve’s Cleaning Services?”
I paused.
… Huh?
But it quickly dawned on me. My client was getting creative with our initials to keep the appointment discreet.
Clever boy.
I beamed at Preston. “Yep, that’s me. Steve’s best cleaner, five months in a row.”
Preston’s lips pursed before he passed on the information—conveniently leaving out my award.
After a long, loaded pause, Preston covered the mouthpiece and addressed me again—almost reluctantly. “Apparently Mr. Westbrookisexpecting you, but you’re early.”
I checked my kitty-cat watch. “By three minutes? He booked me for two thirty.”
Preston frowned and angled himself away. “There seems to be some confusion with the booking time. She was told two thirty. Should I send her up or have her wait in the back room until the appropriate time?”